


Surrender

by inlovewithnight



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-10
Updated: 2007-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight





	Surrender

His hands are cuffed behind his back, wrists thrust through the metal slats of the chair and cuffs on the outside, so he's stuck sitting for the duration. Probably that means they'll want to talk. Cylons frakking love to talk. He won't listen.

Or maybe he will. It doesn't matter. The battle's over, the battle's lost, and maybe it was one fight too many for him, because the battle in his head's stopped as well. He's always followed what he's been taught and clung to his principles, to the defense of lines drawn in the sand. But he's been losing his lines with every shift of the wind lately, hasn't he, and maybe this is rock bottom. Maybe this is where he doesn't fight anymore. Maybe this is surrender.

It's not as horrific as Dad and the Fleet made it out to be.

Warm fingers trail along his arm and he looks up, muscles tensing and hands flexing against the cuffs. She moves around to stand in front of him and she smiles. There's no way to fight and he's not going to try, but the rush of adrenaline is a reflex, blood and heat firing under his skin whether he plans to use it or not.

"What do you want?" he asks, his voice broken and hoarse from shouting his way through the battle, trying to get his pilots through the fire.

Her smile widens and she tilts her head. "From you?"

Her hair is sunlight and her dress is midnight, form-fitting above the waist and loose enough to stir with a breath below, stopping above her knees. "You want me to talk?"

"About what? It's over." She steps closer, catching his chin with her fingertips. "We don't need you to talk about anything."

"So what do you need?" She climbs up on the chair in two easy motions, planting her knees on either side of his hips so she straddles his lap. Muscles flex under her skin, stronger than human, and her hand slides from his chin down to grip lightly around his throat.

"Something to play with," she says lightly, and her other hand starts undoing his fly.

This should be horror, this should be the point of resistance, but he's already surrendered and numb indifference proves a comfortable blanket to wrap around his mind. She's humming under her breath, some tuneless repeating pattern of two or three notes in sequence, and when he doesn't lift his hips to help her clear the trousers, she tears the fabric easily and lets it fall away. He shudders as cold air hits hot flesh and his head drops back, her hand at his throat sliding up and down in a slow caress.

"You thought I wanted you to talk," she says thoughtfully, wrapping her other hand around his cock and echoing the motion. "Just the opposite, really." She releases his throat and reaches down to tug his belt from the remains of his trousers, then presses the leather against his mouth. "Open."

He shakes his head and she laughs, squeezing his cock in warning. "Do it or I'll break your jaw."

He opens his mouth and she slides the strap inside, letting go of his cock long enough to wind the belt around his head and fold the leather through the buckle to hold it in place. "There we are," she says, kissing his forehead softly. "That's better."

He lets his head fall back again, closing his eyes as she resumes stroking him, coaxing his body until it's hard and ready. He's not sure if he wants to beg her to stop or get on with it already, and he makes himself open his eyes and look at her again. She's biting her lower lip, her free hand up under that flimsy skirt, getting herself as ready as he is. She sees him watching and smiles, teeth still pressing against her lip, and brings her hand up to his face, sliding one finger in past the belt to paint the sour-sweet taste of her on his tongue.

Then she's sliding down around him, hot and tight, and he has a brief crazed thought about those more-than-human muscles, if they run all the way through, but it doesn't last because her hand slides down from his mouth to his throat again, tighter this time, pressing him back hard against the chair as she starts to move over him.

Her other hand grips the back of the chair beside his head, and he can see it from the corner of his eye, see the muscles tense and relax in the same rhythm as the one at his throat, the same as her hips against him, working his cock inside her. Her eyes are closed, her teeth worrying her lip again, and he's never been this superfluous in sex before, never been this nonessential to the woman he's with, except that's exactly what he's always been.

She moves slowly enough that it's like torture, and he would laugh at how utterly ridiculous that thought is except her hand is tightening and tightening and he can't find enough air. Then suddenly she lets go, and the rush of oxygen to his lungs leaves him dizzy, twisting erratically under her as she drops her hand beneath her ghost of a skirt again.

She comes, muscles tightening and pulsing around his cock, and those fears of castration rush through his mind again for another split second before he comes as well, hips arching up against her and head hitting back sharply against the back of the chair. She makes a sound that's either a laugh or a sigh, settling against him and running her fingers through his hair. Her nails bite into his scalp and he winces, blinking up at her.

"You'll do," she says, leaning in to kiss his forehead again. "I think we'll keep you."

He closes his eyes again, burying himself down again in the warmth of the shifting, unmarked sands of surrender, and listens as she hums those endless idle notes again and walks away.  



End file.
